The Door
by gendeerfluid
Summary: The Door written by Cris Jackson. Synopsis: The door was always closed. It was a known rule without needing to be spoken or agreed upon. Today was the first time in Strider Family history that rule would be broken. Triggers: blood, scars, family issues. Enjoy.


The door was always closed.

It was a known rule without needing to be spoken or agreed upon. Bro knew that teenage boys who are going through puberty need their privacy and space because even he was young once and even he wanted to be alone sometimes. The door remained closed from the moment Dave came home from school to right before he got off his lazy ass to make dinner, which afterwords the door would again remain shut until the next morning. Exceptions included anytime he felt like playing video games, drawing, jamming on his turntables, or doing other activities with either himself or with Bro outside of the safe haven of his room. It was as simple as that.

Today was the first time in Strider Family™ history that rule would be broken.

The slow, eerie whine from the rusting door hinges made Dave jump, and he quickly shoved the katana under the bed he was sitting upon. He couldn't tell if Bro had seen it or not because the darkness of the room engulfed his chiseled face, which contoured to the shadows and concealed his already shaded eyes with more darkness.

"Dude," Dave scowled a bit harshly. He plastered his best Fuck Off face upon his jaw, knowing that he couldn't see the nervousness in his eyes. "What are you doing."

Bro was silent for a long time. He stood framed in the doorway with his hand resting still on the doorknob, expression, well, unreadable at best. His jaw was tight and his mouth was caged shut. The longer he refused to speak the greater Dave feared for the worst.

"Bro," he growled.

"Little man, we gotta talk," he murmured eventually.

Dave didn't let the panic that coursed through his blood affect his expression. He kept his gaze into Bro's glasses, which reflected his face from the light in the back room. He focused on himself, making sure that he looked stern and unafraid. He knew Bro would be able to see even the slightest movement in his face and then it would be all over.

"What do you want?" he exclaimed in an exasperated tone, a very convincing teenage sound.

"What's going on with you?" Bro replied calmly, almost…soothingly? What was he, some softhearted soccer mom now? This isn't like him at all. "You aren't acting right."

"Well, yeah, probably because you barged in my room like a fuckin' savage, all messing up my focus and shit," he snapped. "Maybe next time you could just knock, or- you know, how about this. Call my name a few times like a regular adult does. Kind of how parents do it. I'm pretty sure brotherly shouting works just the same."

"Stop fucking around," Bro commanded. Dave almost let his guard down at his sharp remark. He felt a cool shiver begin to creep up his back behind his ears, whispering like a winter breeze that was drastically different from the 50-degree-shitty-Texas winters that came to disappoint each December, especially harsh during his childhood when he would search the skies for snow, or a flying,fat, old man who would shit presents on their roof.

He repressed the urge to let the chill quake him, and muttered, "Then what are you talking about."

Bro let his hand drift from the door handle as he glided across the room to lay it against his brother's shoulder. His grip wasn't weak, but he wasn't too overbearing either. He began to kneel down beside his bed, and as he did he reached his other hand out toward Dave's hand.

"Dude what-" Dave began. He realized what was going to happen just before his wrist was within his brother's grasp. He tried to pull his hand out before he would be trapped in his strong hold, forced to explain everything, made to look into those disdainful shades of his and see the fear begin to leak into his expression. Bro was too swift for him though, and his hand tightened just enough to keep him from escaping from this.

"Dave," he started, as he began to turn his wrist upward. Dave struggled to remain silent and not jump up, to not let his guard down, to keep completely expressionless. "…Dave, can you explain what these are?"

Carved upon his soft, lightly dotted skin, were protruding lines, varying in thickness and redness, freshness and dullness, length and width. Some were simply straight across, forming a field of fleshy grass that appeared as though it would wave at the slightest gust of air. Others were made into a system of curves and smaller lines that took the shape of words, particularly adjectives that became engraved into him like a tattoo.

Scars are a funny thing. They each have their own story, their own memories within them. Much like the horns of a deer, or the colored feathers of a bird, they are a part of you, and tell your story better than any monologue or spoken word could anticipate.

People like Dave simply have to show you their arm and their entire story is laid out in front of you. It may not be clear or descriptive enough to interpret, there is no scoreboard listing how many tears came with each cut, how many nights they stayed up with the thoughts they had when creating that particular slice. And you may not need it to be that way, but one glance and you have seen all that they have known.

The door was supposed to be closed.

For the first time in Strider Family™ history, it had been forced open.

He didn't know how long ago the hot tears began to land on his aviators, or how long the silence had been stretched, or how livid— no, how worried— no, how disappointed— no…No, he didn't know how Bro felt. His face was still as hard as ever. Still as distant. Still as unaware of the problem. He looked down toward his feet eventually.

"I," Dave choked, catching his voice. "I didn't know how to tell you."

Bro pulled Dave into a piercingly tight embrace, nearly squeezing the air out of him. He felt Bro's scruff brush against his shoulder, as well as a wet cheek against his neck. Heavy sobbing coughs escaped his lungs as he gripped Bro's shoulders and buried his face into the warmth of his collarbones.

"We're going to fix this," Bro stated, stern but obviously filled with emotion. "All of it. I promise, Dave."

Dave shook with relief, not from being found out but from being free of hiding. Bro's hand began caressing his back, stroking gently but protectively. He remembered the fear and anxiety he experienced when he almost risked someone seeing his arm, seeing the lines of scars down his wrist like farm rows, being disgusted by them. He only hoped his seeds would survive so good things could grow from them.

"Dad," Dave coughed. His breath caught again and he hesitated, realizing his mistake. He felt Bro pause from the comforting massage, taken aback by the simple word. Dave eventually mustered, "Thanks."

His embrace tightened and the stroking returned to Dave's back. His hand reached up and cradled the back of his head into his shoulder.

"I only want the best for you."

—-

The door had always been shut.

For the first time in Strider Family™ history, the door had been opened.

The door has been left open ever since.


End file.
